Explore "Ode to the Double Autumn" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The sea is alive while the land does not move: the grave autumn of the coast covers the still light of the land with its death, but the roaming sea, the sea keeps living.
There is not one single drop of sleep, death, or night in her combat: all the machines of water, the blue cauldrons, the crackling factories of wind crowning the waves with its violent flowers, all alive as the viscera of the bull, as the fire in music, as the act of amorous union.
The works of autumn on the land have always been obscure; immobile roots, seeds submerged in time and above only the corolla of the cold, a vague aroma of leaves dissolving itself in gold: nothing.
An ax in the forest breaks a trunk of crystals, later, evening falls and the land places a black mask upon her face.
But the sea does not rest, doesn't sleep, has not died.
Its belly grows by night which warped the wet stars, like wheat in the dawn, it grows, throbs, and cries like a lost child that only with the beat of daybreak like a drum, wakes gigantic and grows rough.
All its hands move, its incessant organism, its extensive teeth, its business with salt, with sun, with silver, all is moved, is stirred with its leveling springs, with the combat of its movement, while the sad autumn passes over the land.